"I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. “Oh, much better. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. And if I hadn't been thirsty, that poor boob would have made a sure getaway and left James Boyle high and dry among the moth-balls! Oh, the old dome works once every so often.
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